Love Never Dies, It's Just Resting
by Cherusha
Summary: New York City opens its arms to Erik’s tired, poor, and huddled self yearning to breathe free, so that he may reunite in this second life with his one true love Christine. Important Note: Erik/Raoul


Title: Love Never Dies (It's Just Resting)

Author: cherusha

Pairing: Erik/Raoul (this is SLASH)

Genre: Humor, AU

Summary: New York City opens its arms to Erik's tired, poor, and huddled self yearning to breathe free, so that he may reunite in this second life with his one true love Christine.

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Once upon a gaudy Parisian opera house, during a time before plastic surgery and Simon Cowell-produced reality television were widely available to the masses, a poor, unfortunate soul with the face of a monster but a voice of an angel fell in love with a beautiful, kindhearted orphan-girl. The girl, however, loved a handsome, if slightly useless aristocrat of considerable means and advantageous genetic stock, and together they ran away and lived happily ever after. In true Hans Christian Andersen fashion, the facially disadvantaged hero of our story was resigned to live out a lonely and miserable life. Even in his last dying hours, however, he never forgot his one true love and only wished they could be reunited in another life, another time -- a time when people looked at him and saw not the monster, but the man. A time when he did not have to hide from the world. A time when beautiful brunette angels were not stolen away by pretty, foppish blonds.

And with that, he died.

And in that second, as with every second in the spectrum of time, literally hundreds of similar such requests reach the proverbial inbox high up in the sky. It may take awhile to read through every sob story and record every wish, but eventually, they do get to yours.

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A sudden nerve-shattering noise awoke him from his stupor. He snapped open his eyes and then immediately wanted to shut them forever again. The feeling was like getting assaulted by a legion of foreign invaders dressed in an invincible armor of color and motion and chaos. Fortresses of glass and stone that rose from the ground to pierce straight through clouds in the sky stood like mountains on either side of him. Metal carriage contraptions magically sped past him at amazing speeds that the fastest thoroughbred from Arabia would not have been able to defeat. Lamps suspended overhead besides signs that displayed numbers and words like "Broadway" flashed from green to orange to red. And the people! So many people! He had never before seen, or even imagined, such a mass of humanity gathered in one place. He saw people in strange, brightly colored costumes, women with their legs completely bare, men from darkest Africa to the most eastern point of the Orient, a bearded fellow with a sign around his neck that said THE WORLD IS COMING TO AN END IN 2012, READ MY BLOG AT...

"Hey buddy, you want to move your ass or what?"

There was that nerve-shattering noise again, coming from right behind him, and he turned to see a bright yellow carriage (_car? yes, car._) with its agitated owner's head sticking out of the side. He gave a gesture of apology and quickly made for the sidewalk.

"Fucking tourists," he heard someone mutter.

_Ah, New York_, he thought.

In the thirty minutes it took for Erik to arrive to his place of work, he had remembered nearly everything about his new life so far. It had taken five minutes of him staring speechlessly at the big metal deathtrap that ate people before he finally remembered the bit about elevators.

"Fucking hell, there his is," boomed an angry voice, followed by the equally angry face of Mr. Firmin, editor-in-chief of _The Standards_' Weekend Arts section.

"You're over an hour late."

"I had a complete mental breakdown in the middle of Times Square and was almost run over."

It was as close to the truth as Erik could get away with.

"Fucking jokers," said Firmin without much bite. "God knows why I continue to keep you on my payroll."

"Because I'm popular with the readers. Because I bring you money."

"Yeah, yeah. Listen: there's this new gallery opening tonight that's getting a lot of buzz because its owner's the son of one of the city's richest men. Blah, blah, blah, you know the deal. Apparently the collection is by a completely unknown artist who I've heard is the chump's girlfriend of something. Fucking socialites. If its not opening some ridiculous tiki-themed restaurant in Park Slope, it's sponsoring a talentless bimbo hack."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Then do I have to go? I know what to write already."

"Oh no. No way on this one. I know you have this sarcastic edge that, fuck knows why, the readers eat up like Hannity at IHop, but with this you _will_ swallow your considerable ego and write for me a glowing fucking review. Did I mention that this son is a de Chagny? As in heir to the de Chagny media empire and whose father owns 50% of this newspaper, which means he owns 50% of your ass, as well as the ass of yours truly?"

The impulse was the same, every time. At the mention of that hated name, Erik had wanted to strangle the nearest person. Of course the nearest person was Firmin and strangling one's boss in the middle of a busy newsroom upon which one relied on for the money to buy prepackaged TV dinners, Starbucks and Malboros did not for a reasonable decision make. He resorted to pacing back and forth instead.

"I know you feel like you're selling out," Firmin was saying, "but you'll just have to fake it, look on the bright side (that your ass won't be out on the street), and smile, smile, smile. And as it's his girlfriend we're talking about, I'm sure she'll be something to look at."

Erik stopped pacing finally and turned, his heart pounding. "What did you say her name was?"

Firmin squinted at the paper he held in his hand. "Christine D— Fuck if I even know how to pronounce this name," he shrugged.

Someone way, way, way up high smiled and marked another sheet DONE.

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-tbc-

A/N: Did you hear the one about ALW doing a sequel and calling it "Love Never Dies"? This is my reaction to it. Apologies, btw, to Monty Python for the inspiration for the title.


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